


A Case of the Hiccups

by paien



Series: To Raise a Child (Templar Style) [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Crackfic (sort of), Gen, Templar boyband tackles babysitting, This devolved fast, What Could Possibly Go Wrong?, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 01:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15653127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paien/pseuds/paien
Summary: Haytham is away, Connor gets the hiccups, and the (in)capable Templars are tasked with watching him for the day.Or, where child Connor unintentionally defeats the Templars again.





	A Case of the Hiccups

**Author's Note:**

> I was sick and overtired and managed to get the hiccups while finishing this and now I am going to bestow this on all of you (the majority of things they try in this story are weird hiccup treatments I found online. Who knew there were so many ways to get rid of the hiccups?)
> 
> Inspired by the prompt by Unkown Author (thanks!!) - check out the link for more great prompts :)
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14589258?view_full_work=true

“You are leaving?”

Connor stares up at his Raké:ni with wide eyes, prompting the older man to sigh and crouch down beside him. Haytham’s joints crack with the movement. Connor giggles at the sound and pats his father’s knee.

“Connor,” Haytham answers sternly, tapping the boy’s arm, “I must leave for business. Now, I shan’t be gone long, but you must behave for Mr. Lee until I return.”

“But, Raké:ni,” Connor whines, “I—”

“—don’t like Mr. Lee, yes, I know,” Haytham finishes and brings his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Connor frowns. Raké:ni does that often, though Connor does not understand why—after all, Uncle Thomas is not trying to steal _his_ nose.

After some time, Haytham says lowly, “Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

Connor straightens immediately at his father’s tone, realizing that Raké:ni’s already limited patience is precariously low this morning. There is no arguing with Raké:ni in this mood.

“But you will be home tonight?” Connor asks quietly. His father reads to him every night and, though Connor has never admitted it out loud, he often spends hours tossing and turning in the darkness if he is not allowed the comfort of his father’s soothing voice.

Although he thinks his father may know anyway—he always seems to know everything.

Haytham’s eyes soften. “I will try.” Then he looks at Connor purposefully. “But you must be good for Mr. Lee while I am gone.”

Connor makes a face but nods. “Okay,” he agrees as he holds his arms out wide.

Haytham smiles approvingly, a small upward curve of his mouth, and draws Connor into a warm embrace. The boy wiggles and happily buries his head in his father’s chest before whispering cheekily, “I still don’t like him though.”

“Indeed,” Haytham says wryly. “And that is why I have asked William, John, and Thomas to visit if they have time.”

Connor grins, planting a sloppy kiss on the other man’s cheek. “I love you, Raké:ni.”

Haytham rolls his eyes but pulls him in tighter. “I love you too, child.”

* * *

Fortunately, William and Thomas arrive before Charles Lee. Connor has just settled in for breakfast, the morning songbirds coming to life soon after Haytham’s departure. The sun rises with the bustle of the people of Boston, and he pokes disinterestedly at his food.

“Can we go play outside?” he asks Thomas, who is seemingly just as bored with the mundane events in the kitchen and is absentmindedly gazing out the window.

Thomas grins widely and moves to leave his chair, only for William to interrupt:

“Only after you’ve finished your food, lad.”

Connor sighs, returning to using his fork to listlessly push his eggs around his plate.

“Then,” William continues, “I thought we could go for a nice walk in the Frontier.”

The young boy looks up and raises his eyebrows. “Really?” He glances at Thomas, who is settling back down into his seat with a sour expression, for confirmation.

“I s’pose so.” Thomas shrugs and gestures impatiently at the table. “But you gotta hurry up and eat, alright? We’re all gonna be dead and buried by the pace you’re goin’ at,” he finishes with a mumble.

“But I’m not hungry,” Connor complains.

William lowers the newspaper in his hands and affixes the younger Kenway with a stern look. The scowl, though nowhere near as intimidating as his father’s commanding glare, is enough to spur Connor into rapidly scooping his eggs into his mouth.

William watches with amusement and suddenly asks, “Thomas, how much do you reckon you could catch in one morning?”

Bewildered, Thomas stares at the other man; Connor freezes mid-chew and observes the exchange curiously.

“What, you mean hunting?” Thomas says finally.

“Aye.”

“Er…”

“I’d wager that Connor and I can catch more than you.”

“Oi! Now hold on just a moment—”

“What do you think, Connor?”

Realizing what William is implying, Connor grins with delight and hastily swallows his food. “We can catch twice as much as you, Thomas!” he announces loudly.

“Oh, that’s what you think, is it?” Thomas says, eyes alight at the prospect of a challenge. He stands and ruffles the boy’s hair. “Let’s go, then!”

* * *

William snorts, holding back an exasperated sigh as Thomas leaves the kitchen to fiddle with his gun. Does he think that a bullet will give him a clean kill? Shaking his head, William turns his attention back toward the Grand Master’s child.

“If you’re done now, lad, we can clean up and find Thomas,” he says, smiling fondly at Connor’s poorly concealed excitement. William scoops up the boy’s finished plate and places it in the sink. “Connor?” he prompts when he realizes that he has not yet received an answer.

Turning to properly look at him, William immediately rushes to his side when he notices the consternation on Connor’s skinny features.

“Whatever is wrong?” William asks, glancing around the room for a potential cause of the boy’s distress. Surely there was nothing wrong with the food? Connor does appear rather constipated, though…

Lips shut tight together, Connor stares at William with large, frantic eyes.

“Out with it, lad!” William says, alarm clear in his tone now considering that Connor is not one to draw undue attention toward himself.

The boy opens his mouth to speak—finally!—and abruptly shuts it again, but is unable to prevent the strangled gurgle that escapes him.

 _Hic_!

William blinks. “Connor?”

 _Hic_! _Hic_ , _hic_!

Chuckling with relief, the Irishman places a comforting hand on Connor’s back. “Nothing to worry about—just a small case of the hiccups! Try holding your breath for ten seconds,” he suggests.

Connor nods, his thin chest puffing out as he sucks in a large gulp of air.

William raises his eyebrows.

 _Hic_!

“Ah. Well, it was worth a try. Never you mind, Connor—I’m sure they’ll be gone by the time we make it to the Frontier.”

 _Hic-hic-hic-hic-hic-hic-hic_.

“...On second thought, let’s try and get rid of these pesky hiccups first, hmm?”

* * *

Thomas cleans the barrel of his gun and ensures that it is completely reloaded before holstering it and setting off to find William and Connor. The kid can’t take _that_ long to eat, can he? They must have gone to the basement to gather hunting supplies.

But, as Thomas cuts through the kitchen to find them, his jaw drops and he stutters to a halt just past the room’s threshold.

“The _hell_ is going on in here?” Thomas yells, shoving past William to shake the impressively red-faced Connor standing in the middle of the room. “Goddammit, kid, breathe!”

Connor finally opens his mouth, gasping for breath. “Thomas,” he says desperately, “make them stop!”

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” he asks, waving his arms frantically in front of Connor, whose eyes are red and watery from holding his breath so long.

Now, Thomas has never much been the voice of reason, but he possesses reason enough to know that _Haytham is going to kill them_.

“Thomas,” Connor whines. _Whines_.

Connor never whines. Thomas can almost feel his life flashing before his eyes—with Haytham at the end of the tunnel and bearing his hidden blade.

“Thomas,” Connor says, “I— _hic_!”

Thomas stares in disbelief.

“You- _hic_ -said- _hic_ -a— _hic_!—bad word!”

Eyes narrowing as he realizes what is happening, Thomas says accusingly, “You’ve got the hiccups,” and pretends that he didn’t let loose a curse in front of Haytham’s son.

Connor nods pathetically, stifling his small squeaks as best he can.

Is that it?

“Well, that’s hardly a problem! I’ve got here an easy fix for you, kiddo.” Thomas grins confidently and puts his hands on Connor’s shoulders. “My ma had the best trick for gettin’ rid of those blighters.”

“Really?” Connor asks, hope sparking in his eyes even as William looks at Thomas skeptically.

Thomas ignores the other man. “Cross my heart—worked every time. I’ll just need ya to stick out your tongue, okay?”

“Thomas…” William says warningly.

As if Thomas would do anything to harm the little tyke. Odd as it is, considering he has never wanted children, he’s rather fond of this one.

With the naivety of youth, Connor obeys quickly, his expression open and trusting.

“Okay,” Thomas says, “Ma used to just give our tongues a little tug. Dunno how it works exactly, but she was a damned miracle worker doin’ it.”

“Mmphhm,” Connor says impatiently with his tongue still waggling in the air.

“Alright, alright. Kids these days haven’t got no patience,” Thomas mutters, earning a snort from William behind him.

Thomas carefully reaches for the tip of Connor’s tongue—he distinctly remembers the unpleasant feeling of his mother grabbing hold of his own—and gently pinches down and pulls it out. Releasing his fingers, Thomas steps back triumphantly and waits.

Frowning thoughtfully, Connor wipes his tongue on the back of his hand. “I think it worked.” He smiles. “Thank you, Thom— _HIC_!”

Blast.

* * *

Walking purposefully up to Master Kenway’s elegant home, John greets the maid and hangs up his hat and coat, grateful to gain shelter from the midday sun. Being a man familiar with the fracas of war, he has always appreciated the serenity of Haytham’s quietly managed abode.

 _CRASH_.

“THOMAS.” William’s irate yell echoes through the corridor. “Put that down—do _not_ ruin the furniture.”

“Thomaaasss. _Hic_.” Another, more high-pitched voice. “It’s not working!”

Well, John amends his previous thought with a wry smile, it is _usually_ quite peaceful in the Kenway mansion.

He walks into the spacious sitting room to find Connor on the couch, visibly distressed, with his arms crossed. William is seated next to the distraught boy, head in his hands. And Thomas…

Thomas is holding a candle stand above his head, banging on the metal with a large spoon from the kitchen.

From his time in the military, John has witnessed many strange occurrences. After all, there is little opportunity for traditional entertainment when camped at the enemy frontlines.

 _This_ is absurd though.

Neither Templar has noticed his entrance yet, and John takes a moment to rearrange his gobsmacked expression into something more respectable. Then, he startles all three occupants of the room and says, “What _unholy_ madness is this?”

Thomas jumps and fumbles the items in his hand, leaving William to lunge forward to prevent the candle stand from denting the floor.

“They were trying to help me get rid of my hiccups,” Connor says desolately, apparently oblivious to the shambolic adults surrounding him.

“By doing some strange _voodoo_ _dance_?”

“...Yes? _Hic_.”

John shakes his head and sighs.

“We’ve been— _hic_ —trying all of Thomas’ remedies.” Connor looks up at him with round eyes. “Do you know any that we can try? It’s been hours.”

Frowning at the boy’s pitiful state, he slowly says, “I suppose I know of one thing.”

* * *

Charles huffs to himself as he trots up the path to Master Kenway’s house. While watching Connor for the afternoon certainly isn’t a burden—nothing Haytham asks of him can be a burden—the boy is certainly a _chore_. Charles cannot fathom how a child borne of a man as great as Master Kenway can be so impertinent.

Nevertheless, Charles is bound to ensure that no harm befalls the boy, so when he enters the Kenway estate to find John Pitcairn, of all people, pinching Connor’s nose shut as he drinks a glass of water, Charles immediately prepares to reprimand the group of Templars in the kitchen.

That is, he was preparing to scold them until Connor suddenly chokes, and Charles feels a cold sweat breaking out on his back.

He is so caught up in his panicked thoughts of Master Kenway’s reaction to Connor’s death that he is frozen to the spot. Thankfully, John settles the boy down into a chair and helps him cough up the liquid in his airways.

Then, absurdly, John asks, “Did it work?”

Charles sputters as Thomas and William also eye the boy eagerly. Were they _trying_ to torture him?

Connor pauses, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully.

“Well?” Thomas says impatiently. “C’mon lad, we’ve been at this all day.”

_All day? They’ve been torturing the lad all day?_

Charles thinks he may pass out.

“I— _hic_!” Connor throws his hands up in frustration at the sound, and the three other men promptly do the same with identical expressions of despair.

But as Thomas reaches for the water glass again, Charles knows he must put an end to this lunacy.

“What the devil,” he interrupts icily, “is going on?”

All four occupants turn to stare at him, wide-eyed. Infuriatingly though, none of them seem to be particularly repentant.

Thomas makes a bizarre sweeping motion with his hands that does absolutely nothing to explain the situation or to reassure Charles.

“The wee lad has got a bad case of the hiccups,” William clarifies.

Charles’s moustache twitches as he tries to determine who to yell at first. Before he can reach a decision, though, Thomas says, “Nothing we’ve tried has worked. You haven’t got any suggestions, have you, Charlie?”

Charles glares at him. “All this because of the hiccups?” he bellows at no one in particular. “I’ve got a suggestion—why don’t you all sit in the bloody corner until Master Kenway returns!”

“It’s not a bad idea,” John says, furrowing his brow. “Sometimes all you can do is wait.”

William and Thomas glance at John, then turn to Connor.

“Very well,” William says. “Let’s go, then.”

Charles signs with relief, which then becomes confusion as Connor sits cross-legged in the corner of the room and is joined by the three other Templars.

“What are you doing?” Charles asks flatly.

Thomas only shrugs and lowers himself to the floor, leaving a dumbfounded Charles to seat himself at the kitchen table alone.

They sit in silence for the next hour, with only the grating squeaks of Connor’s hiccups to break the quiet.

* * *

The sun is beginning to set, and Connor sits unhappily in the darkening kitchen, his mood deteriorating further with each hiccup that escapes him. He wishes his Raké:ni would return.

The reminder of his absent father only upsets him further, and Connor cannot stand it any longer.

“I want Raké:ni!” he cries, standing up and stomping his feet furiously.

Alarmed, the Templars stand up with him and gape at his increasingly hysterical tone.

“Now, Connor,” Charles begins, but Connor refuses to listen.

“Where is he? Tell him to come home!”

Charles regards him crossly. “You know very well that we can’t—”

“Connor?” Mercifully, by the Grace of God, Haytham’s tired voice floats from the front entrance. “Charles?”

Connor’s eyes light up and he takes off, barreling into Haytham and wrapping himself around the man’s legs. He giggles as his father lets out an exclamation of surprise, almost tripping over his ecstatic son.

“You’re _home_!” Connor says, tightening his grip until Haytham is forced to stand still and attempt to extricate himself from the tangle of small limbs.

“I am,” he agrees, bemused. “Is everything alright?”

Connor finally releases his father and follows him to the kitchen, where the remaining Templars are still standing in the positions he had left them.

Haytham frowns, wondering why his men are warily staring at Connor. “I trust you all had a good day?”

Connor is smiling widely, too happy to have his father back to be concerned with his trying day. He opens his mouth to express his delight, and the Templars all cringe as they anticipate another inevitable hiccup.

“You’re home!” Connor says again, jumping in front of his father until Haytham lifts him into his arms, still sporting a quizzical look.

“Yes,” Haytham replies slowly.

“Read to me?”

“I… Of course.”

As the Grand Master carries Connor, chattering away on his hip, to the boy’s room, Charles exhales loudly in relief, exhaustion etched into his features.

The sentiment is echoed by Thomas, William, and John.


End file.
